Sherlock Puppy
by Cyberwolf
Summary: A SH22 fanfic. Holmes isn't feeling himself lately. ^_^ Involves H/L (later) comedy, a crossover reference or two, and many deus ex machina.
1. Accidents

Right, my first SH22 fic... 

(grins) Involves much Holmes suffering and several Deus ex Machina...and a crossover reference, see if you can spot it. ^_^ 

Well, onwards, I guess.  
***  
Sherlock Puppy  
A SH22 fiction by Cyberwolf 

Classifications: Comedy  
H/L (coming up)  
No serious mysteries 

Disclaimer: I in no way own or have the least bit chance of owning the characters or situations of Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century. (though if they get tired of Holmes, I'll take him!) The puppy and the petshop and the American marine with two kids belongs to me. But you can borrow them if you want. =)

            The New London night was cool, and bright with the illumination of both the city and the sky. Upon its streets both young and old (and the middle-aged, who are not generally noted) walked, some fast, some slow, some too lazy to walk and taking cars instead. But enough of them – let us focus on the one whom this story is about.

            The man who strode through the crowd was very tall, and very lean. His facial features were sharp – in both the aesthetic sense, and in the sense that great intelligence was suggested. Blond hair was mostly hidden by a deerstalker, and he was set apart from the other New London pedestrians by (aside from his height) his rather old-fashioned clothing. 

            Yes, ladies and gentlemen, fellow Sherlockians, fans of SH22. The man was our favorite resurrected detective, Sherlock Holmes – and he was shopping. Grocery shopping, to be more precise – a task usually delegated to the compudroid Watson, but a task he nevertheless was undertaking now, due to Watson's being at New Scotland Yard for the day, for the routine systems-check-up that all compudroids, whether or not they were assigned to famous almost-legendary detectives, were required to undergo.

            Anyway, so here Holmes was. He'd been given the list by Watson, who calculated the exact amount of food that Sherlock would need for the next month (with very generous allowances for the possibilities of the Irregulars or the Inspector dropping in for tea…or supper…or lunch…) and had carefully and exactingly fulfilled the requirements of said list. He'd paid for the purchases and left, very assiduously ignoring the check-out clerk's attempts to flirt with him. He'd never dealt very well with such…things…especially when the woman in question outweighed him and whose hair was a most shocking shade of purple that was definitely not natural. (had to put that in, sorry – traumatic experience that happened to a friend of mine…would have loved to see our Victorian Holmes in that situation…)

            Right, so where were we? Ah yes – Holmes was walking home from the grocery store, carrying his bagged groceries. He was idly looking at passers-by as he walked, and deducing their occupation and current situation in life, the same way you and I might make note of the colors of passing cars. It was a most entertaining pastime, though not one that particularly taxed him. Just as he had pegged a man as a soldier, most likely a Marine, a tourist from New New York (sorry – just had to put that) with two children – a toddler and a newborn – and who liked watching Saturday Night Football while eating caramel popcorn and Cheetos from the same bowl….IT happened.

            Yes, indeed, IT happened – and in this case, IT does not refer to Professor James Moriarty.

            A hovertruck was passing by New London on its journey to Surrey. In Surrey was the lab of Professor Utonium, Jr and the truck's cargo was his order of several barrels of Chemical X. It was called Chemical X because it was a chemical and X is pretty much a universal symbol for unknown variables in equations, whether real-life or mathematical. You know – 'Mr X, our mysterious benefactor…' 'X marks the spot…' and the most hated 'so if blah and blah, X equals….' – and since no one really knew the exact nature of Chemical X, they called it X.

            The guy who drove the hovertruck was ordinarily a likeable enough fellow – a little short on the brains, but he was tall and strong and good-hearted, and his face was not _quite_ as bad as an orc's. His name, by the way, was Sam Hanford, and wasn't it a strange coincidence that his initials were the same as Holmes'? Yes, it was a strange condition, and never you pay mind to that, because this has nothing to do with the story.

            Anyway, he was a likeable enough fellow, but on this evening he had been driving for over thirty-three hours without a break, and his eyelids were getting droopy. And when drivers get sleepy at the wheel, little things called 'horrid automobile accidents' tend to happen. So poor drowsy Sam, who had not been getting enough sleep, succumbed to Murphy's Law, Special Corollary for Fanfic Writers – if something bad can happen, it usually will, and it will involve the fanfic-writer's chosen character in some way – and fell asleep at the wheel. 

            The truck careened wildly, almost ran over (in order) an old lady out for a stroll, a mailbox, two teenagers walking a bunch of dogs, a streetlamp, a hoverblader, another old lady, a random nondescript pedestrian and a man in a giant purple dinosaur costume before wrapping its entire front end around a lamp-post.   
            In doing this, the truck tipped over. In tipping over, the barrels rolled out. In rolling out, the contents of one of them were forcefully expelled, showering whoever was nearby in a rain of softly glowing golden liquid. And guess who was the single person nearby? Yup, that's right – Holmes.

            Actually, Holmes wasn't the only _creature _nearby. A single puppy was there too, in spite of the fact that in New London 22nd Century, there were hardly such things as stray dogs. The puppy was light gold in color, similar to the coloring of a golden retriever, although a little more short-furred. Its upright ears and conformation suggested some Malamute blood, though whatever its pedigree was, it was clearly a crossbreed of two or more strains. And it, too, was showered with the rain of Chemical X.

            Furthermore, the shock of the truck's collision with the lamp-post, and then the barrels of chemicals impacting against it, had weakened the rather rickety wall they were near. It crashed down on barrels, truck, detective and puppy (and bags of groceries) with a loud clatter.

            Nobody noticed that the man and puppy had been glowing right before the wall crashed. 


	2. Occam's Razor

Chapter II

            Holmes gained his senses with the same alacrity he always did. He could feel the weight of the bricks, slightly, on the bottom half of his body – but not heavily enough that it would account for the wall having fallen on him. Clearly some structure had fallen in such a way that it propped the wall. His upper half was entirely free. He wriggled his way out, trotted some distance away, and turned to regard the fallen wall. Already rubber-neckers were gathering, though thanks be to the Powers Above that they were more interested in the truck and wall than in him. What a bit of good luck that was, getting out of there with so little in the way of injury. He sat down on his haunches, cocking his head to one side as he regarded the man being helped out of the truck. Hm…probably had not slept for about two days or so, judging from the pallor of his skin and the bags under his eyes. That, as well as the way the truck was moving before it slammed into the lamp-post, made it clear that he had fallen asleep at the wheel – poor man. He looked aghast. Oh well, no one had been hurt, that wall was the back of some building knocked down long ago, he'd probably get off pretty lightly.

            He wagged his tail, once. Too bad about the groceries, though.

            He then froze. His brain, which was in normal circumstances probably the quickest one in the world, was very slow in informing him of what he had just registered, and further slowed by the repetive litany of 'this is not possible, this is not possible, this is not possible…' circling his mind.

            He sprang to his feet and examined himself. Four oversized paws – a tail – four stubby legs – a chubby, _furred_ body. 'Occam's Razor, my dear Holmes,' an evilly amused voice in his head reminded him. 'The least complicated reason is the truth, all things being equal. What do your senses tell you?'

            'You are now a dog. A cute little puppy-dog, to be exact.' 

            For the first time in his life, except perhaps for long-forgotten instances as a baby which he would never admit anyway, Sherlock Holmes howled.


	3. Adoption

Chapter III

            The New London night was cool, and bright with the lights of both the city and the sky. Upon its streets both young and old (and the middle-aged, who are not generally noted) walked, some fast, some slow, some too lazy to walk and taking cars instead. But enough of them – let us focus on the one whom this story is about.

            The young lady was of average height, and rather slender in build – though this in no way meant that she was delicate or petite. On the contrary, she radiated an aura of 'please-mess-with-me, so-I-can-have-a-reason-to-kick-ass' to most people; furthermore, she was dressed in the street uniform of New Scotland Yard, and most people didn't like to pick a fight with a Yardie. She had brown hair, with an odd but eye-catching streak of lighter, almost blond hair in the front, and bluish-green eyes, and (you'd be surprised at how many people could pick this up right away) considerable experience at giving deep hurting.

            She was, of course, Inspector Elizabeth Lestrade, and she was on her way home from work. She was in a good mood – Grayson hadn't yelled at her for property damage or irresponsibility or taking the last of the coffee, and she had finished with all her paperwork, and her month of paid vacation was coming up. Ah, yes, life was sweet.

            She passed by a police cordon. Naturally curious, of course, she came nearer, and then lost interest as quickly. A car accident – a collapsed wall – policemen (not Yardies, but the more mundane and rather less glamorized New London Traffic Patrol) Holmes would instruct her to take in the situation, deduce quickly what she could from the minutiae there, and probably would himself for the sheer hell of it, but damn – it was a _car accident._ There was no mystery involved here, no enigmatic lack of conclusions and facts. Judging from the noticeable lack of media hounds, and no blood seeping anywhere, it involved no casualties. And anyway, Holmes wasn't here. 

            So she continued on her way, until almost tripping over something. A very furry something. 

            "Hello," she murmured, bending down. "What's this, then?" A puppy? With no ownership tags? The puppy looked miserable, tail in between legs. She picked it up, and was startled to see that instead of the usual dark brown, this dog's eyes were a deep blue. Rather like…well, Holmes'. 

            The puppy looked straight in her face, and if Beth wasn't so sure that it was impossible, she would have thought an expression of shock flickered across the puppy's strange blue eyes. 

            Impetuous Lestrade, who brought dead men back to life without her superior's permission, there and then decided that this dog would be her new pet. She liked the look of it…

*** 

            Holmes could scarcely believe it. Well, he was a dog, and after various tests, had to accept it for the time being. He had four legs, a snout, and a tail. Some differences to normal dogs – he had the clearer, color-enabled eyesight of a human being, and somehow (thank God) retained all his higher brain functions. 

And then he had been _adopted_ by, of all the strange coincidences in the world, Lestrade.

            'Bloody hell, I'd _kill_ for a smoke.' 

            They stopped by a pet store, where he was bought feed bowls, a bag of puppy chow, some chew toys and (the indignity, the indignity!) a collar and leash, both of which were attached to him while still in the store. He couldn't stop his displeasure at having a _leash_ fastened to him from showing, with a low, quiet growl issuing from himself that surprised him.

            "Quiet, Seeker," she ordered the dog as she clipped the leash onto the collar already around the dog's neck. Holmes quieted, less out of obeying than in sheer shock. Seeker? What, she'd already _named_ him? Well, her job (and her life) was being a detective, _seeking_ out the truth…but naming a dog Seeker…?

            And then she'd had the pet-shop attendant sweep him in a 'bath' of sonic waves that were the exact frequency to kill fleas and ticks and other parasitic pests. Holmes stood still for it, mildly insulted. He'd been swept for fleas. He'd never be able to look at himself in the mirror the same way again. 

            They went out of the shop, the bag of pet things Lestrade had purchased on her arm, and Holmes trailing a bit sulkily behind. He was _collared_, literally, and he was named Seeker. This made everything he said about marriage mild. Although thank God Lestrade wasn't the sort to name a dog Fido or Froo-froo or Rover. He couldn't have borne it if she had.


End file.
